Bailing Wire and Beaver Ponds

June was weird. Lots of rain and cool temps threw off the river. Flows were still very high, and from experience I knew it would be a pain in the ass to navigate my favorite spots—and even a little dangerous. So after talking with a friend who would be with me, we agreed to postpone and keep an eye on the flows. If we could get above all the tributaries, we’d be better off—but that was a big if.

I came into the shitty little A-frame we stay at every year a day early. With flexibility on my side, I could get in a half day before he showed up and do some solo fishing. That was the plan, anyway, until I hit the dirt road that stretches the next 20 miles to camp. The state usually grades the road every June, but there’s been talk of them backing out of their responsibility and privatizing it at the county level. The road is designated a “CR,” which stands for County Road for those who live outside of Colorado—so it’s a real road, right? So why is the state trying to back out of its responsibility? Anyway, the road was rougher than usual for this time of year, and with all the rain it was in poor condition.

I was doing about 15 mph, dodging potholes and cutting across washboard. The landscape was spectacular, and I began to unwind like I usually do when I hit the dirt section and enter the backcountry. It was a little cool for this time of year, and it dawned on me to crank the windows down and enjoy the air. That’s when I heard a loud clanking sound every time I went over something rough—and also when I swerved. WTF…

After a few miles of slowing way down and trying to assess things as I moved farther into the wild, I pulled over in an open meadow. To my surprise, I’d blown out a ball joint from my steering rod linkage. The joint was crushed—hence the clanking, smashing sound—and the nut was just hanging on by a few threads. Checking the other side, I noticed there was no cotter pin behind the nut. So apparently the last time I had the truck in the shop, the mechanic forgot to put them back in on both sides. Well, that does me a lot of good now.

I grew up on an old dairy ranch, and bailing wire is something you either had or knew where to find. Funny thing is, I usually carry a spool with me—and a handful of tools, too. Not this time. I couldn’t tell you why, but now it was time to get real crafty. Daylight was still on my side—it was about noon—and if total failure happened, maybe someone would come by… hopefully.

I didn’t have my channel locks with me, but I had my Leatherman, so I painstakingly cranked the nut down past the now-compromised grease boot. I wanted it tight. Task one complete. Now I needed something to replace the cotter pins. There’s an old fence that runs intermittently along the road the entire stretch, and that’s where I went looking. Surely someone, sometime, had to repair a section of that barbed-wire fence. That’s just typical—and bailing wire is always the key element.

I spotted a discarded length of wire, but it turned out to be too rusty and brittle, so I kept looking. I tried to keep the stress of the bigger picture at bay and stay in the moment—eye on the prize, finish the task at hand.

Stomping through the tall grass, I was replaying the threads on the joint in my head, double-checking my memory. I believed the nut threaded on fine and wasn’t stripped… I believed. Time to refocus. You’ll check it again once you’re back with the wire, I told myself.

I came up short-handed finding decent wire, so I moved on to Plan B: cut a section of barbed wire, unweave the strands, and hope for the best. Plan C was to find a nail and use it as a cotter pin—if the diameter wasn’t too big. But then I found a good-looking section of barbed wire and gnawed through it with the Leatherman. It took a bit of time, but I ended up with a good length and quantity—three wires per weave, each about a foot long.

When I got back, the chipmunks had gathered under the truck out of curiosity. I had nothing to give them—no bread or trail mix—as payment for watching over my abandoned rig, but I felt no guilt. They volunteered, and eventually scampered off.

The wire fit perfectly to secure the nut, and with satisfaction I grinned and moved to the other side to finish the job. Feeling relieved, I cleaned up, put the Leatherman away, and stashed extra wire nearby—just in case. Then I hopped back in the truck. I still had about a half hour to go on the road, and judging from the first half, it wasn’t going to get any better.

I don’t care who you are or how experienced you think you are—you still get that sinking feeling in your gut when you put it in gear and start rolling again. I must have been creeping along at an impressive 5 mph, but to my astonishment, there was no banging from the ball joint. So I crept on to camp—and I mean crept. Even the chippies didn’t bother running away when I drove past them. But I made it.

A sigh of relief washed over me when I rolled up to my shitty little A-frame. Now the show had to go on: unloading food and gear at 9,200 feet. A little light-headed after unloading the truck for a week-long stay, I cracked open a cold beer and sat on the porch to “spell awhile.” I noticed the beavers had been busy this year on the creek that runs past the A-frame. They’d created a nice pond just a short walk away, and I spotted afternoon risers dimpling the still water. A hatch had to be coming off—the cutthroats and browns were taking full advantage.

With a mild altitude-and-beer buzz, I rigged up the 3-wt, grabbed a box of dries, and headed to the pond. An afternoon thunderstorm was building at the north end of the valley and, of course, heading my way. I figured I had maybe two hours if I was lucky.

The storm held off long enough for me to land a few little guys—all browns today. Oh well. It was a perfect way to come down from the day’s events and get my fish brain switched on.

On the walk back, I felt like celebrating the day’s victory by grilling a steak on the deck. Once the coals were right, on went the steak—and a few more beers. As the thunderstorm rolled in, I dragged the tiny couch out onto the covered deck. I sat there sipping beer and eating steak while lightning lit up the beaver pond.

Today did not suck.

…but what about the four-hour drive home at the end of the week?

Fish on—